Curled and Wounded
by neithersaintnorsinner
Summary: "She is already the weed in a garden of roses; tolerated, surrounded by people who are nicer and kinder and more forgiving. There is a life she never wanted to watch unfold being flaunted in front of tens of thousands of viewers, and Caroline has no desire to catch the live show." Caroline and Darcy talk after Lizzie ends her vlogs; mentions established Lizzie/Darcy.


_"...unrequited love does not die; it's only beaten down to a secret place where it hides, curled and wounded."_

The next time he's planning to be in L.A., Darcy sends her a predictably formal email.

Caroline reads it with a vague, paranoid sense that Lizzie encouraged him to reach out. Lizzie is everywhere Darcy is, even when she _isn't_; she just—fits, naturally, in his life.

Caroline's managed to avoid this particular arc of her social circle so far. She still hasn't made it to New York ("A little more time," she tells Bing and Jane over Skype, again, and they nod with excessive understanding). It's too soon.

She is already the weed in a garden of roses; tolerated, surrounded by people who are nicer and kinder and more forgiving. There is a life she never wanted to watch unfold being flaunted in front of tens of thousands of viewers, and Caroline has no desire to catch the live show. But Darcy is still a fist around her heart; she misses him, he's _here_, and he wants to see her, even if it is out of some misguided sense of obligation.

Besides, Catherine will never forgive her if she blows him off.

They meet for drinks. Caroline gets there early. She needs time to put together a collected exterior, and facing him without a cocktail in her system just seems imprudent.

When he gets there she's sitting very straight and very still at the end of the bar, a drink in one hand and her phone in the other—the perfect picture of busy, sophisticated, over it. Her legs are crossed, her Louboutins angled impeccably.

"Caroline," he nods.

It takes a great deal of restraint, but she manages to echo his formality with only the slightest hint of mockery. "Darcy."

_Glenlivet, neat_, Caroline predicts before he orders. She's correct, of course.

"I hope you've been enjoying your time in L.A."

Conventional expressions are her defense mechanism.

"I have," he takes a sip of his drink. "How are you, Caroline?"

"Fantastic," she replies, managing to pour a surprising amount of conviction into the word.

Maybe not that surprising; she's been trying to convince everyone she's _fine_ for weeks—months, now, so it's automatic. Caroline supposes the question is to be expected after she lost her characteristic self-control and made an ass of herself in an extremely public fashion. Darcy doesn't say anything, just raises one of those perfectly arched eyebrows at her. She's always loved his damned eyebrows, and her steady expression falters, just a little. She busies herself with the olive in her martini.

Darcy breaks all his former protocols by continuing the conversation himself.

"About—about what Lizzie said on her video blog—" he starts, clearing his throat excessively.

She cuts him off. "Lizzie said a lot of things."

"Yes," he says, simply.

The silence hangs there. It's a drop of water teetering on the edge of a faucet, seemingly growing fatter and fatter, full to bursting, until Caroline says at last (_splat_):

"Look, I didn't handle myself particularly well, about Bing, or about—you. Interfering the way I did. It wasn't the wisest course of action, and I'm," she takes a breath, "Sorry."

It's expected and obligatory. Even if everything is still a little raw, though, Caroline means it. Mostly. Anyway, she has to smooth things over somehow. She drains what's left of her drink and orders another.

"Then I suppose we can leave things at that," he bends his lips upwards, his expression pleasant.

She tries to keep her incredulity polite. "Really."

"Did you honestly believe I would react differently?"

Caroline tilts her head. _His good opinion, once lost…_

"Given how poorly I've handled myself when it comes to matters of the heart," Darcy says, feelingly, "I sympathize."

The difference, of course, is that it worked out for him.

Her phone goes off. Caroline glances at it to avoid his pitying eyes more than anything else. (It's no one. A text from her service provider. It seems ridiculously appropriate, somehow.) Her purse slips when she fumbles with it, though, and Darcy grasps it automatically.

"You've taken up smoking," he says, gravely, observing the pack of cigarettes in her purse.

"Oh, years ago. I've just stopped hiding it."

"You really ought to reconsider, given the health repercussions. There are numerous studies—"

"Yes, I'm well aware," she interrupts, "And if I weren't, Catherine already gave me her opinion on the habit. In addition to a sermon on the deleterious effects of smoking on female fertility, by the way. It was scarring."

He is silent for a moment. "How is my aunt?"

(Catherine had responded to the news about Lizzie-and-Darcy with an offhand remark about how she supposed he could sow his wild oats as necessary: "Sleep with her if you must, William; there is still time for you to settle down with a more suitable woman at a later date."

No doubt Catherine considered it a benevolent reaction on her part. Darcy, to say the least, had been incensed.)

She brushes a stray strand of hair from her face. "The last time we spoke, she was still 'most seriously displeased' about the whole business, so she's exactly how you might expect."

The corners of Darcy's mouth are tensed, his fingers unmoving and tight around his tumbler. Apparently he still struggles against his temper. With difficulty, however, he masters himself and brings the conversation back to her cigarettes:

"Perhaps my aunt would have had more luck persuading you to quit by mentioning that some scientists link smoking to hair loss," he says with a small smile.

Caroline is caught off-guard entirely by the remark. "William Darcy, did you just _tease _me?"

"Yes."

He looks so proud of himself, she can't help laughing. His sense of humor never used to be this good natured. Caroline would know; it's one of the things they had in common. He's moved beyond that, beyond snarking behind closed doors, and yet he somehow seems more like _himself_ than he ever used to.

She manages to keep her voice steady. "God, she really is good for you, isn't she?"

"She's amazing," he finishes his drink, but the warmth spreading across his features isn't because of the scotch.

Caroline refuses to let the silence fester this time. "Well then, I'm glad you're happy."

Conventionalism again. The fact that it doesn't sound entirely insincere is, frankly, stunning progress. She isn't really happy for him—well, she is; it's just a blurred sort of happiness that comes from knowing the person she cares about has exactly what he needs, and it isn't her.

The fact is, Caroline could never make him this way, and it's an inconvenient kind of ache.


End file.
